Chance Meetings
by darcy10
Summary: Vaughn has lived most of his life without a father. Unbeknownst to him, he is suddenly working alonside William Vaughn....my very first fic..
1. Default Chapter

Part I  
  
The air was as crisp as the sound of a person biting into a crunchy Fuji apple in the middle of winter. In the milky light of the waxing moon, the tinkling soft laughter of two lovers could be heard, and the night seemed to delight in their forbidden revelry. The man was tall, and his oversized hockey jersey enveloped his otherwise lean torso so that he had the appearance of a young skinny boy, pretending to be one of his favorite athletes. The woman was tall also, gracefully slender, and while the young man seemed old beyond his years, the woman seemed carefree and innocent. Her smile was genuine and her dimpled cheeks made her child-like. Both were skating on the frozen pond in the midst of the park, smiling at one another and forgetting for just a moment that their lives were tied to a job that seemed to suck away at every little pleasure in life. Unbeknownst to the happy couple, a strange man stood at a distance from them under the deeper shadows that the evergreen trees offered. His eyes were beautifully green , but dim in light and life above the wrinkles of his lower eyelids. His hair was now a solid grayish-white color so that it came off looking a distinguished silver color. He was not a fragile old man. In fact, he was quite the contrary. Tall and stolid, he looked to have been a football player or a body guard as a young man. While he held himself in a way that would come off as being imposing at first, one could simultaneously see the sorrow in his stance, the way his shoulders seemed to be a little more slumped than usual, and the way his eyes eagerly followed the quick, flitting movements of his son flying over the ice.  
  
He wondered who this woman was that made his son's face light up in a way he had never observed before. He had to agree that she was beautiful, but to him, nothing could match the beauty of his son. While he imagined it must have been painful for Michael Vaughn to have grown up without a father, it was more difficult, as a father to have lived late into his old years, sitting on the sidelines, watching his boy grow up without him, and to live everyday knowing that he had deceived his family. Of course he had had no choice. It was either his family or him. So much to his shame, he had gone to serve the very terrorist agency that the CIA was trying to get rid of. On many occasions he had had the opportunity of meeting his son face to face during operations. Of course it was always with him behind a mask or hood, but nevertheless, each time, the face of his son startled him. It was so much like his mother's. Michael had inherited more of his mother's features. While he did have William's eyes and height, he had always been slight like his mother, much to William's disapproval. Yet appearances were deceiving. When he watched Michael on the field, he was impressed with the way he fought, his eyes blazing with an intensity that William had never felt while working for the CIA.  
  
As he continued to ponder the past, the sound of voices drawing nearer made him draw more quickly under the darkness of the woods. The girl, evidently called "Sydney," had linked arms with Michael and was looking with concern into his face. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Michael replied carelessly, "Of course...I'm fine, really. This helped a lot, and I thank you for that." Sydney smiled and squeezed him tightly before she reluctantly released her hold on him before they reached the parking lot of the secluded park. "See you tomorrow," Vaughn whispered into her ear before they both parted ways, as if two strangers on mission at two different parts of the world. Now William had reason for concern. He wondered what Sydney had been worried about. Even as she had parted ways with Vaughn, she had glanced back surreptitiously, her face reflecting an expression of intense worry. He decided to find out. Skillfully, he trailed at a safe distance from his son, his footsteps not making the slightest bit of sound. As Vaughn drew near his house, the yellow light from the lamp post burst into life, casting it's tinted brilliance onto the pale drawn face of his son. William gasped. Vaughn looked ill. While he had looked so carefree at the park, the truth was evident to the father as he ran a paternal glance over his ailing son. There were dark rings around his eyes as if he had not slept in months, and his eyes appeared much too large for his face. It took all of Williams' strength to not run over to his son and demand an explanation for his current state. He sighed, he would find out tomorrow anyway, if he could find a way for Vaughn to open up to him. William was going in undercover to the CIA, as a mole for his agency. He had been recruited as a senior handler and would be working alongside his son. He sighed softly in frustration as he watched his son retreat into the house. Vaughn was just like him. Closed off. He would destroy himself that way. He would have to wait until tomorrow to meet Vaughn face to face, without a mask.  
  
Part II  
  
Everything was a routine to him nowadays. It had to be or he felt as if he would break like a weak dam, all of his emotions and frustrations pouring out in one big deluge. Vaughn weakly rolled to one side of the bed, willing himself to arise from bed and make it to work before Kendall would page him in fury, before Sydney would start worrying. Just as he was about to rise from his latent position, the phone by his side rang. He grabbed for it blearily, wondering who could be calling so early in the morning.  
  
"Michael, did I wake you?" It was his mother.  
  
"No," he replied while he desperately tried to stifle a cough that was threatening to explode over the phone.  
  
"You sound funny," his astute mother accused. "Are you still sick? You've had that cold for over a month now?"  
  
"No, mom, I'm fine. I really have to get to work, so I'll call you back when I'm off," Michael tried for the easy escape.  
  
"Well, there's no need. I'm going to come over there myself to check up on you," Mrs. Vaughn replied.  
  
Michael sighed. His mother would not be swayed for she was one of the most stubborn women he had ever had to deal with. "That's fine, I'll see you then," he consented and hung up the phone in exasperation.  
  
As he glanced across the room, he was stunned to look at himself in the mirror. He truly looked ill, if not like a ghost. Although he was normally a thin man, he could see that even his t-shit that had once closely hugged his body now hung off of his body in a most unhealthy way. What had he been doing to himself? As he wondered about this, he was overpowered by a coughing fit, causing him to double over on to the bed in an effort to subide the wracking of his body. Once the coughs subsided, he rushed into his usual apparel of a suit and tie and ran out the front door. He had 5 minutes to rush into his office and make it to the morning meeting.  
  
Rushing in through the front entrance, he ducked his face in order to keep his face hidden from the speculation of his coworkers. The last thing he needed was a confrontation of colleagues over his sickly appearance. He didn't have to worry about that with Kendall and Jack Bristow. They were men who kept to themselves and asked nothing of others. For once, he was glad of their extreme coldness towards people. He rushed into the office to be greeted by not only Kendall, Dixon, and Jack, but also, an elderly man who seemed young and virile because of his posture and his broad shoulders. Vaughn tried to mask his surprise but to no avail  
  
"Agent Vaughn, this is Agent Ron. We just recently recruited him as a senior handler and he'll be working alongside you," Dixon spoke to Vaughn, his eyes flickering over the young man's appearance. If he was concerned, he did a very good job of covering it. Vaughn smiled warmly at the elderly man before him. He instantly liked the man. For some reason, he felt as if he had known him all his life. The elderly man returned the smile as both became seated at the gathering table. As the meeting continued, Vaughn struggled to focus and stay awake, but he felt as if a heavy brick was weighing upon his head at the most vulnerable pressure point. Also, he needed to cough desperately. But he was concerned that if he did, there would be a cause for concern from those around him. At first, he thought he had had a cold, but gradually as the weeks passed by, he became increasingly concerned with the fact that his coughs came from deep within his lungs. It sapped his energy every time he coughed so that he felt faint afterwards. Besides, they would not let him go on the next mission with Sydney if they knew he was not in the right condition.  
  
Suddenly, his body convulsed against the table as he leaned against it for support as he coughed deeply for a full three minutes. He tried to stop desperately, but could not. When he finished, he felt so weak that he remained in position against the table before he raised his head up to meet the concerned gaze of all the men in the room. "I'm sorry, please continue Dixon." Dixon looked at him warily, then at Jack who was looking shrewdly at the ill man in front of him. Jack nodded curtly at Dixon who recommenced with his speech. After what seemed like hours, the men dispersed with Vaughn rushing out of the room before anyone could call him back. Now all he had to do was avoid Sydney and Eric. Eric could bully him into sleeping or eating or taking medicine, and he didn't want any of that.  
  
As he turned the corner in to his office, he ran into a solid figure, the impact knocking him off his feet, tittering between collapsing onto the hard floor and regaining his balance. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and steadied him, and as he looked up, he saw that it had been Jack Bristow. Vaughn tried to read the man's expression but found that he could not. He looked slightly annoyed, but his eyes seemed to soften as he took in Vaughn's disheveled and flustered state.  
  
"I suggest Agent Vaughn that you take a good look at yourself this morning. You look like death." With that Jack walked away, leaving Vaughn to make it a few more yards into his office. At that moment Weiss passed by, munching happily on a donut and calling out absurd names to the retreating back of Haladki. Vaughn ducked his head, but not soon enough because Weiss called out to him, "Hey Vaughn, try out the donut stand today. They finally decided to get the good stuff. Not that Krispy Kreme donut crap." "Yeah, I'll check it out later," Vaughn said nonchalantly without turning around. Vaughn knew his voice sounded odd so he wasn't surprised when Weiss suddenly was standing between him and the door to his office like a wall. Vaughn looked straight into his best friend's eyes, willing himself to look better, at least willing his eyes to look focused. Weiss drew in a breath and drew his friend into the office. "Mikey, what's wrong with you? You look like you're going to drop any second." "Nothing! I'm totally fine. I just didn't get enough sleep," Vaughn protested, searching the file cabinets for something to do. "Now that is what I would call a blatant lie," Weiss laughed lightly. Vaughn smiled and ran a hand through his head. "No really, just need to catch up on sleep." "Whatever man, but you better fix yourself up quick before they drop you from Sydney's case," Weiss said before he shot his friend one more look of disapproval before making his exit.  
  
Once his friend had exited, Vaughn dropped like a rag doll into his chair and pressed his forehead into his hands. He had a humongous migraine and his legs felt like trembling noodles. He didn't think he could last for the rest of the day. He was so tuned out that he did not hear the soft steps of William Vaughn stepping into the office, and the soft clicking of the door shutting behind him.  
  
He jumped a mile in his seat when he suddenly felt a strong reassuring hand lay rest on his shoulder. "You were dozing there for awhile agent." Vaughn straightened up in his seat and smiled weakly at Agent Ron. "I'm sorry, did you need anything?"  
  
"Actually, I was wondering whether you had a room to spare. Agent Bristow told me to make accommodations with you," William said pleasantly as he watched his son's expression change from that of doubt to one of generous hospitality. "Of course, you can come with me tonight as soon as the day ends," Vaughn replied.  
  
"Very well Agent Vaughn," here the elder man paused, unsure of what to say to his son. It was killing him to not be able to talk to his son as a father. He felt restricted, constrained. Vaughn looked curiously up at the older man and suddenly asked him, "Have I met you before?"  
  
The question took William by surprise, but he quickly regained his composure as he laughed lightly, "Perhaps we have. After all, the CIA is a small world." Vaughn studied the elderly man with mirth in his eyes, "I feel so familiar with you somehow." He dismissed this thought however, with a wave of his hand and laughed. "It must be this cold that's getting to me." At the mention of his illness, William became grave again as he studied his son's face once again. While it had been pale before, now his cheeks were alight with the flame of a growing fever. "Are you sure it's just a cold Agent Vaughn?" William asked him. "Oh it's nothing. It's nothing a little sleep can't cure," Vaughn said briefly. "Maybe you should head back home right now," William said with a slight edge in his voice. Vaughn looked up quickly. "Oh no, don't worry yourself. You should probably have someone take you around the building. You need to get accustomed to it," Vaughn said in an effort to detract the attention away from himself. William smiled politely at him and regressed, knowing that his son would not take his advice. 


	2. chatper 1

It was not until 8:00 p.m. that Vaughn and William were able to disentangle themselves from the tediousness of intricate planning and organizing for the upcoming mission, which once again, entailed a high chase after an especially unique Rambaldi artifact that Irina Derevko and Sark were particularly interested in. Vaughn had been strangely intrigued by the latest artifact and had studied it after Dixon's presentation with Marshall's help. He had most generously magnified the photo of a bronze statue of a woodland faun, towering over an imperceptible object. Marshall had fiddled with the computer system to simultaneously enlarge and focus the picture, which finally allowed Vaughn to see that the second object was of a smaller faun, although a decapitated one. The head seemed to have been melted away purposely as if by an intense fire. The way the second faun seemed to be cowering beneath the shadow of the taller faun, made Vaughn observe the latter's expression. Expecting an expression of wrath, he was surprised to discover that the elderly faun wore a face of compassion and love. In his absorption with the art piece, he failed to note that Marshall was observing him with a mystified expression on his face.

"Agent Vaughn, I never knew you to be an artsy type of person. For a long time there you looked just like my art history professor back at the university, all scrunching up your face and all, except he wore these funny little spectacles and was a little shorter and maybe a little stouter, and he always was saying things like, "ahhhhhh.....ooh....now Marshall, stop fidgeting, art is like fruit to your soul." Anyways, I have a basement full of artsy things if you'd like to take a look sometime...."

As Marshall babbled onwards, Vaughn's mind had strayed away once again to the mission at hand. He had reason to go over it repetitively. The truth was, he was nervous. The idea of two field agents on operation at the same time unnerved him. Also, the communication factor would also make his self-proclaimed job of protecting Sydney, hectic. Not only was he going to have to communicate with Sydney, the handlers were to communicate also. When it came to Sydney, he could not multi-task. Vaughn was unsure of whether Agent Ron had been notified of his tendencies to go against protocol to protect Sydney.

Despite all his nervousness, he had not had any objections whatsoever with the way this mission was to be carried out. Although only Jack and Dixon knew why this mission was particularly important, Vaughn had sensed their urgency and knew that the operation was being dealt with in the best possible way.

The piece was secured in a glass vault in a bustling train station in Rome, Italy. To passer-bys, the piece was nothing. In fact, the owners of the train station had unwittingly, and therefore, foolishly, placed a very coveted piece of art in the most conspicuous place: right beneath the ornate clock tower which stood in the midst of crowds of families leaving and arriving to Rome; right where most people could see it, and yet, where most people would not even give it a second glance.

Although the mission seemed easy enough, unknown enemies, perhaps an estimate of six different organizations would be present that day, being that this particular Friday was the weekend of the Wine Festival in Tuscany, which guaranteed that many passengers would be seeking out train as a means of transport to the country. All in all, it was a race, and an extremely dangerous one at that because the CIA knew nothing of its enemies except for Sark and Irina.

The drive home had been a silent one with Agent Ron in the driver seat. He had insisted that Vaughn looked like hell, and that he wasn't taking a risk on his own life by allowing a sick agent run both of them into a truck, two days before the mission. Vaughn had managed to smile wryly at his fellow agent's forced liveliness, but even that little task seemed to take the utmost strength out of his already fatigued mind and body.

The silence finally seemed to lull Vaughn into a light sleep, and as he sank deeper and deeper into a pleasant slumber, he suddenly jerked awake and moaned, "My mother is going to be there." At first, Agent Ron was puzzled, but when he realized what Vaughn meant, he appeared to pale a little. He was glad that it was dark outside, or else, he was sure Vaughn would have noticed the horrified expression on his face. Clearing his throat, Agent Ron asked pleasantly, "And is that necessarily a bad thing?" Vaughn sighed. "Yes, it is very bad because my house is a mess and I haven't anything in the refrigerator, and I'll probably receive a wonderful harangue about nutrition and hygiene and getting 8 hours of sleep every night." Agent Ron stifled a laugh as he glanced at his flustered looking son and assured him, "Don't worry. Perhaps she'll reserve all of that for later when I'm gone." "I hope so," Vaughn retorted, sighed again, and stared out the window for the remainder of the trip, as Ron stared at the road ahead, trying to capture in his mind, what his wife would look like now that twenty five years had gone by since his supposed death. He was most worried, however, that being the shrewd woman that she was, she would know him the instant he stepped into the house, despite the fact that he was "dead."


	3. chapter 2

"The boy must have been starving himself," Doris mumbled as she observed the contents of her son's refrigerator and freezer. To the mother's eye, the contents of the refrigerator told her everything she needed to know about her son. Where the butter should have been, there was a small bottle of blue pills which she expertly knew to be Advil pills, no doubt, for migraines. There was a 24 pack of Starbuck's coffee, thus insinuating his consistent sleepless nights, pondering over who knows what. What worried her most was the lack of a box of leftover pizza or even a carton of Chinese food. She had always chastised her son about his awful eating habits. But at least she hadn't had to worry about him eating nothing at all. The only other things she saw was a carton of milk that was obviously rotten, due to the yellow curd that was forming at the top, and a box of cereal that had been left untouched. She continued on her perusal of the apartment complex and discovered a heinous mess in the dining room, a bed with sheets that looked as if the sleeper enclosed in them had fought restlessly against them throughout long fitful nights, and a bathroom whose medicine cabinet lay wide open, revealing the various medications that Vaughn had been taking to get over his obviously ill state.

By the time Doris had returned to the kitchen, she was dreading looking at her son. Would he come in, unshaven, sleep-deprived, over-worked, and jaded just as her husband had looked so often when he came back from his work? She hoped to God not. Soon, she was bustling away over the stove top, a tiny woman who emanated so much energy, just like a tiny teapot shrilling from the boiling water from within. Within minutes, the kitchen smelled wonderfully of pasta, herbs, and sauces, and all prior worries about her son disappeared as she decided that food was the solution to everything.

Meanwhile, the two agents had driven up to Vaughn's apartment, and stood looking up at the brightly lit windows, both dreading the confrontation, and each one trying to quell his own fears. "Well, I had to face her sooner or later," Michael said defeatedly, his headache gradually worsening, as if an anaconda was wrapping itself tighter and tighter around his head. Agent Ron was too nervous to reply and simply nodded as Vaughn made his way unsteadily up the stairs. He stood before the door, composed his face, straightened his suit, and opened the unlocked door. Agent Ron followed suit, looking positively ill himself.

The warm, glowing atmosphere that Doris had ushered into the room just through her presence, immediately was dampened at the moment she turned around to be accosted by the face of a very ill man who she recognized as a shadow of her former son, and the face of a ghost. She gaped at both of them and allowed the metal spatula in her hand to clatter to the floor. The silence that ensued was finally broken by Vaughn who rushed to her and hugged her as he would have done normally. The shock written on Doris's face had surprised Vaughn greatly, and had hindered him from carrying out his rehearsed act of normalcy. Doris hugged her son back, held him at arm's length and studied him carefully. "Michael Vaughn, you tell me right now what you have been doing to yourself," she said sternly. "Whatever do you mean?" Vaughn asked, taking on her intonation of voice. "I don't have time for games boy. Either you tell me know, or I'll...or I'll...I'll have to swat you several times with this spatula until I knock some sense into that thick head of yours." This time, Vaughn laughed a true laugh, which suddenly turned into a deep hacking cough. As he struggled for breath, he was suddenly being led under the arms into a chair at the kitchen table. As he regained his composure, he found himself under the scrutiny of his mother who seemed to be seething with rage, and also, surprisingly under the sternly wrathful gaze of his partner. "I'm not going to ask you to explain yourself to me just yet. You need some tea, some food, and rest. But do try to be civil and introduce me to your friend here Michael," Doris said in a steely voice. As Michael opened his mouth to speak, Agent Ron raised a hand up to silence him, and turned somewhat reluctantly to the expectant woman before him. "Hello Mrs. Vaughn. I am Eric Ron, Michael's partner at work. I was newly recruited just today, and Michael was so kind as to offer me a room here, seeing as I don't have a place of my own just yet." William looked into the clear blue eyes of his former love. He indulged himself with the view of her golden head, now made even more beautiful with strands of silky aged white hair. She still smelled as she had always smelled, of food and expensive wine. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Ron..." Doris said, her voice faltering a little as she studied his face. Ron found himself feeling very uncomfortable under her observation and tried to keep himself steady. After her curiosity had been fulfilled, she said to him, "Agent Ron, you gave me quite a scare when you walked in here with my son. It's just you look like someone I once knew. You'll have to forgive me. I thought I was looking at a ghost."

Doris caught her son staring at her in curiosity, and quickly jerked her body away into the kitchen, once again the busy bustling woman who had come with the purpose of reinvigorating her son. "Well, seat yourselves. I'll be out in a moment. I've been cooking all evening, and you must all be hungry."

Vaughn studied his partner's face a little more closely while his mother was away. He couldn't place the face from anytime in the past, and yet, he did know what she meant when she had said there was something familiar about him. Suddenly, his eyes came to rest on Agent Ron's eyes. They were green. Now he knew what his mother was thinking.

He abruptly rose from his seat, steadying himself with one hand on the table as another wave of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. Agent Ron rose also, "You should really stay seated." Vaughn brushed his hand away nonchalantly and replied, "I'll be just a second" as he made his way into the kitchen. Looking at the back of his mother's head, Vaughn could not discern what emotions would be playing behind her eyes. That was to be remedied as Doris turned around to face her son, a fake smile plastered on her face. Vaughn could see that she was shaken; her hands were trembling slightly as she ladled an aromatic sauce over a plate of pasta. He gently took her noticeably cold hands in his, and asked sympathetically, "Are you alright?"

Doris tried to mask the reverberating shock she had had in looking deep into Agent Ron's eyes. "I'm fine Michael. It's you I'm worried about." Vaughn kissed his mother on the forehead and whispered, "He looks like Dad doesn't he?" The silence that ensued confirmed Vaughn's conjecture. "What are you trying to do Michael, kill me with shock?" his mother suddenly asked him, irritated. "I don't even remember Dad's face anymore. You threw away all the pictures we had of him. I wouldn't have known his face even if he came back from the dead." Michael argued pointedly. "Well, that man in there is the spitting image of your father, and I don't know if I can stand being in the same room with him at this point. It's just awkward Michael. I know I'm being ridiculous but I feel as if your father's ghost is sitting over there, waiting for his dinner."

"Mom, you don't have to stay. We'll manage from here," Vaughn replied kindly, only to have his hands swatted away by an indignant looking Doris. "Trying to be rid of me already are you? Tsk, tsk...do you really think me such a simpleton? After seeing you, you should consider yourself lucky that I'm not planning on forcing you back into my house again. Now hurry and help me carry these things in."

Dinner was a strenuous ordeal with Doris trying to avoid eye contact with Agent Ron, and vice versa , and both parents being extremely concerned about their son, who seemed to have no appetite at all. Vaughn was in a personal hell of his own as he fought to control his nausea as he forced down forkful after forkful of pasta, which he would have finished a long time ago. Also the tension in the air was getting to him, and despite his many efforts to ignite conversation, every discussion topic seemed to spark no interest in either his mother or Agent Ron. To say the least, everyone was relieved when it seemed that Vaughn could simply eat no more, and the dinner hour was officially, by tacit agreement, over. Before Vaughn could escape however, Doris placed red capsules on the table before him with a tall glass of water. "Sleeping pills," she replied to the query in Vaughn's expression. "And I'm going to get rid of those awful coffee drinks you have in your refrigerator." With a perfunctory nod at Vaughn and Agent Ron, she retreated back into the kitchen to tackle the dishes, calling out over her shoulder, "We're going to have to visit a doctor sometime Michael!"

Vaughn grinned sheepishly at Agent Ron and was soon leading him into the guest room. Once the door had been closed behind him, William flopped down on the bed, the stress of the day finally being released into the softness of the mattress below him. He hoped to God that Doris would not be making regular visits here, and yet, on the other hand, he wished she would. The instant he had seen her, he had fallen in love all over again. The sight of her killed him, and yet, it was the pain of love that he had not felt in years. He welcomed it with relief, finally knowing that his heart had not hardened like so many of his colleagues back at the agency. The last thoughts he had before he fell into a deep sleep was whether he had been sent, out of all people, on this mission as some cruel twisted joke.


	4. chapter 3

Vaughn looked doubtfully at the sleeping pills in his hands. He didn't believe in sleeping pills. In fact, he didn't believe in sleeping, period. He felt it was a waste of time, unless that sleeping time happened to be in the company of a loved one; in his case, Sydney. However, he had to admit that he really needed to go to sleep. He was exhausted and hurting, and all he wanted to do was lose consciousness for at least 12 hours. Having made up his mind, he gulped the capsules down and was soon slumbering on his bed, still fully dressed in his work attire.

To say the least, his sleep was a fitful one, full of feverish turns and delirious mumbles. Vaughn was fully aware that he was living out a nightmare, and yet, this did little to abate the fear he felt as he ran down the hallway, following Sydney as a mob of agents the CIA had never encountered before chased after them. Suddenly, he lost sight of Sydney, and as he rounded the corner, a slender, muscular arm had hooked itself around Vaughn's neck, and suddenly, he felt a sharp jab right below his left shoulder blade. Even as he lay unconscious on the floor, the Vaughn who was observing everything in the dream, begged the figure on the floor to awake. When the figure did not, Vaughn willed himself to awake from the dream, but found that he could not. His eyes seemed to have been clamped shut, and his weary body seemed to want to remain intact with the bed mattress. Helpless, Vaughn knew what was going to happen next. This nightmare was a replay of the mission that had occurred about two months ago. As he continued to watch, the female who had knocked him out, approached his still body. She was clothed fully in black leather that clung to her curvaceous figure, and her steps were light, graceful, and calculative like a wily cat's. Had it been under different circumstances, he would have thought her mysteriously beautiful. Looking into the eyes of the masked face, he saw that the woman's eyes held a glint of cold humor in them. He screamed at his body to jerk back into action, for his eyes to open, but his unconscious form lay there. The woman was now at his side, her right hand on the hilt of a vicious looking dagger. "Awake sleeping beauty, you won't die just yet. Not until I've made full use of you." The hand that had been covering the dagger reached forward and traced Vaughn's jaw line. At that moment, just as Vaughn expected, Weiss rushed onto the scene, making the cat-like woman prance away quickly out of view. Weiss slung Vaughn over his shoulder and raced for the entrance, reassuring him in the meantime with short spurts of breath, that he was "going to be just fine," and that Sydney, "made it out uninjured." In his hurry to escape, Weiss did not see the masked man that stood before him until both collided into one another, resulting in a tangled mess of limbs. The masked man got up slowly, glanced uncertainly at Vaughn's crumpled figure on the ground before he swung aimlessly at Weiss's face. Weiss easily evaded the punch, and pummeled the man to the ground with his weight, knocking him unconscious against the wall. Once again, Vaughn was slung over Eric's shoulder, and as they departed, he looked around to see that the masked figure against the wall had awoken quickly and was staring after their retreating backs.

He finally awoke, his shirt having been soaked through with sweat. He remained still, puzzled, as he listened to an odd rasping sound in his room until at last, he realized that it was his own breathing that was making that unpleasant noise. "I must have pneumonia," he thought and threw the tangled bed sheets off of himself as he went to the bathroom to strip out of his suit. As he pulled off his undershirt, he saw a tiny puncture mark under his left shoulder blade from a side profile of the mirror. He froze for a second or two, then drew closer to the full-length mirror and stared at the puncture mark. He had never noticed it before in the two months that had passed since that mission. To see it now made him feel apprehensive. It was barely noticeable, and yet, the wound appeared odd. It had not scabbed over, but instead, looked as if someone had given him a fresh immunization shot that very day. Also, he noted that had it been a shot that he was given, it would have been a large needle, seeing as how the prick mark beneath his shoulder blade, was unusually large for any regular needle. He stared back at his reflection, anxious. He hadn't felt pain there at all, except for when he had initially experienced the jab from the leather-clad woman during the mission. And even then, he was sure that the shot was administered to knock him unconscious, remembering how his vision had immediately clouded afterwards. He wondered about getting it checked out, then dismissed it, as he ridiculed himself for being so paranoid.

Emerging from the bathroom, Vaughn glanced at the clock next to his bedside. It was 3:45 a.m. He groaned. Unfortunately, the sleeping pills had by now worn off, and he couldn't seem to be able to go back to sleep, not that he wanted to. He would much rather sit pleasantly on the sofa in reality, then return back to his nightmarish slumber world. As he commenced to throw the sweaty bed sheets into a corner of the room, his attention was stirred towards a sound in the guest room next door. Although he couldn't make out the words, he knew that Agent Ron was conversing with someone over the phone. He looked incredulously at the time, and wondered who would be so rude as to call that early in the morning. Perhaps it was his wife? Pondering for a second, Vaughn realized he didn't know very much about his partner at all, and vowed to better acquaint himself with the man in the following days, since they were to work together after all.


	5. chapter 4

The phone call jarred him from his pleasant slumber , an ominously disturbing sound that seemed to echo through the spacious room. It was 3:30 a.m. He grunted into the phone, "Agent Ron." The voice he heard over the line chilled his blood in an instant. To any eavesdropper, the voice at the other end would have sounded beautiful, a silken voice, slightly tinted with the flavor of a Russian accent. To him, it was the voice of a satanic temptress. "Somehow I don't picture you as a Ron," the voice laughed at him. William clenched his jaw as he asked her shortly, "What do you want?" There was a sound of clicking, and he could imagine in his mind, perfectly manicured nails, painted blood red, tapping methodically and contemplatively against a glossy wooden table. "Impatience, my dear, is one of your most unattractive traits. You must have learned by now that it simply won't get you anywhere." Again the voice tinkled with laughter as it continued, "Besides, you know why I've called don't you? Not only am I curious to know how your reunion went, but I've also called because I've missed you dearly and must meet with you at 7:00 a.m. at the park on Sequoia and Hawke." "Is this necessary?" he asked irritably. "You are our most valuable possession, you forget. We mustn't make mistakes on our first mission now should we? And don't worry, your room is not bugged, nor is your phone, so there should be no reason why you should be hindered from coming tomorrow," With a soft click, the voice vanished, and William was left to his own dark thoughts.

The sun rose, and along with it, a sheet of gray clouds that somehow muffled the world of sound that usually precludes the official start of day. William rose quietly, already dressed in a pair of jogging shorts and a white t-shirt. He wondered whether Doris had spent the night. Pausing briefly before his son's bedroom door, he leaned his ear gently against it, and listened for sounds of life. Hearing nothing, he quietly slipped through the apartment, unnoticed, and jogged his way over to the park.

Everything was eerily silent about this particular morning. Birds did not sing, the usual roaring of construction trucks could not be heard, and the air was thick with the humidity before an impending storm. Suddenly, a woman dressed in a flowing black skirt fell into stride with him. The familiar musty smell of her perfume notified him that it was her, and he followed wordlessly into the depths of the forest. They continued their leisurely walk for what seemed like fifteen minutes, the tall evergreens seemingly engulfing them in a tunnel of obscurity. The gray skies now only appeared to them in patches below the ceiling of the evergreen boughs, and the ground was no longer a paved path, but rather soft unturned soil. At last, she seemed satisfied with where they had come, and she seated herself on a stone bench that William had failed to notice at first.

"Come, sit next to me," she said, patting the space next to her. William stood before her silently, not making any movement to join her. She sighed and removed the hat that had been veiling her face. "Do you find me so unattractive?" When he did not reply, he looked up at him, her usually impassive face contorting into what William perceived to be a twisted smile of sadistic coyness. "It's been 25 years, William. When will you give in to the idea that your family has moved on without you? They need you no longer. They have grieved, they have been angry, and now, they have their own lives. Do not hold a grudge against me for doing what was best for your family." At this, William whirled on her in anger, "Don't you dare tell me that YOU did what was best for MY family. You simply handed me an ultimatum. I had no choice but to join you and your filthy crew." "No choice you say...how interesting. You had a lot of choices Mr. Vaughn. You simply chose our way, and let me commend you on that. It was the right choice. I would have done the same for my own if I was being blackmailed by a terrorist agency that was watching every movement of my family, ready in one second to kill them all." As she said this, she reached up and took a hold of William's arm, tracing lazily along his skin with her red painted talons. "Relax, you left at the epitome of your career. Your name was free of scandal and dishonor. Michael will always remember you as a hero. You needn't worry that he'll discover someday that....well, that you are a traitor to everything he stands for."

William was usually very good at compartmentalizing his anger, but the latter statement tore the last steel gate of dignity and composure he had spent years building up inside himself. In an instant, he held a glinting switchblade at the white throat of the woman who sat before him. The woman had not flinched, but instead, gazed back at him with her lovely, cool eyes, holding a particularly gruesome looking dagger alongside William's jagular artery. "I wouldn't try anything Mr. Vaughn. You are an agent, and you have already forgotten the first lesson concerning rage. It'll get you into more trouble than you bargained for." The two figures stood stock still in that position for what seemed hours, William's rage expelling through his mouth in short hitched breaths. He glared into her face as he spat out the following words, "I'm through with you and your agency. You're wasting your time with me today if you think you're going to get me to follow through with this mission." Her soft laughter caused him to blink in surprise, a precious second of surprise that she took full advantage of as she knocked the switchblade out of his hand into an unknown location. "You're in no position to tell me what you are going to do, "she said as she pressed the point of the dagger dangerously close to his throat. "Kill me, I don't care," William said unruffled by her sudden movements. "Foolish man. You would want to live, if you knew of things that are unknown to you now." She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "Because your ignorance is jeopardizing everything that you have to live for, I will just have to enlighten you. And also because I'm somewhat attracted to you..." here she grabbed both sides of William's face in her hands and kissed him lustfully on the lips, "I feel obliged to save you from unnecessary grief." William jerked away in disgust as he backed away into the trunk of a tree. He waited, his heart pounding in his temples as he studied the face that stared back at him knowingly.

She ran her fingers through her flowing brown hair, and gazed up at some unknown object to the right. "Tell me William, how is Michael?"

William stared back at her, the color draining from his face. "What have you done, you witch..."

"I only ask about his health. Is he well?" she asked innocently, avoiding eye contact with the man before her.

"Leave him out of this. I'll do whatever you say," William said calmly, willing his voice to remain steady, willing himself to not to give himself away by allowing the tremors of fear overtake his body.

When she did not answer, he gripped her forearm in a death-like grip, causing her to wince as he demanded, "What have you done?"


	6. chapter 5

Sydney Bristow was not a patient person. Not only that, she hated silence. She liked action, initiation, fire, sparks, commotion, noise, and there was none of that where she was currently. To entertain herself, she studied a crack in the ceiling of the warehouse, noting its intricate trail from the top to the side of the wall, and wondered morbidly if one day, the gravity of the earth would finally overpower the stubborn cement ceiling and cause it to crumble with a thunderous roar, right above Vaughn and herself as they spoke of another counter-mission. Automatically, she searched for a piece of wood, and finding that she was leaning against a wooden crate, reached behind her and knocked on it, cursing herself in the meantime for being both unnecessarily imaginative as well as superstitious.

She sighed loudly, her exasperation stemming mostly from the fact that the warehouse was stiflingly humid, and that she was wearing a black suit, which seemed to make the situation worse. Just as her impatience was edging into worry, Vaughn appeared at the gateway entrance, dressed casually, and his face overcast by the large brim of a baseball cap that seemed to have been from the 50's. She smiled, amused, "That's the first time I've seen you in a hat." She could only discern his smile from the way the corners of his mouth turned upwards. If it was a forced one, she wouldn't have been able to tell because the cap shaded his eyes. As he drew closer, she grew concerned. His gait was unsteady, and the way he held himself drew obvious attention to the fact that he was either desperately trying to hide some bad news, or he was about to fall apart, and was holding onto a very thin string of composure.

Walking up to him, she raised her hand to lift the cap off his head to learn the truth from his eyes. He waved at her hand, protesting, "Hey, don't touch the hat!" but gave in as she grabbed his arm from swatting her hand away, and slowly pulled the ridiculous hat off.

At first she couldn't see much in the dimness, but dragging him over to a more lighted area, she saw that he was sick and in dire need of at least a week's worth of sleep.

"Vaughn..." She started to say, but stopped when he silenced her with his hand. "Look, let's just get this done with. Then, I'll do whatever you were going to say to me just now. But, this mission is crucial, and we can't waste any time."

Anger and irritation flashed across Sydney's face, but disappeared just as instantly as it had come. She lifted both her hands this time and cupped Vaughn's face endearingly as she said hopelessly, "You're not fair. How come you're allowed to worry about me, while I'm supposed to just sit back and watch you suffer?"

Vaughn leaned into her hands, allowing them to massage his throbbing temples, and breathing in her clean scent. "God Vaughn...you're burning up,"she commented worriedly as she moved her hands down from his face to encircle her arms around his waist. He pulled back from her grip. He was in control. He had to be for his own sake as well as Sydney's. Once more he reverted back to his role as the invincible handler.

"It's not that bad, Syd...just a cold," he tried unconvincingly.

"Whatever. Just get on with the counter-mission, "she said, crossing her arms against her chest, "The sooner I hear it, the sooner I'll get to pop you full of pills, tie you down to a bed, and induce you into a death-like slumber."

Vaughn smiled, handed her a photo of the Rambaldi piece, and watched as she peered at the photo carefully, seemingly etching the details of the statue into her memory. "What's that right there?" she asked him, pointing to the second figure in the photo. "It's a headless faun," he said humorously. She frowned, as if he had said something sacrilegious. If it weren't for the deformity of the second figure, she felt she would have liked the statue. Somehow she couldn't believe that Rambaldi, creator of beauty, would have purposely made it headless. It seemed incomplete. "It's actually a very small statue. It would fit in a 12"x8" box," Vaughn was saying, "and you'd have to use this..." at this point, he took out a deceptively flat and insignificant padding of cloth, "to get through the glass case." Sydney looked incredulously at Vaughn. "That thing? It's just a piece of cloth." "You forget Sydney, we have our own ingenious little scientist, Marshall," Vaughn retorted as he showed her how to patch the sticky side of the cloth onto her palm. "It's sensitive to glass, so when you press against the case with your palm, the glass should easily pop out. Something to do with electricity, I didn't understand him half the time he was explaining it to me." She took the cloth from Vaughn, "So is Agent Wilkes going to have one as well? Or is he just going to be there to watch my back?"

Vaughn paced slowly, thinking aloud, "Actually yes, he will have one, but you're our key player Syd. If somehow you're not able to reach the case, he'll be sent in. But for the most part, yeah, he's basically going to watch your back."

"How's Agent Ron?"

"Agent Ron?" Vaughn asked, looking at her blankly.

"Yeah, how is he? He can handle all this...mission stuff? He seems a bit old."

"He's not any older than your father," he said defensively.

"Well, it's just that it seems a person of his age would be in a different, I guess a safer

line of work."

"Your father's position is no more safe than mine," Vaughn argued.

"I guess I'm just used to younger handlers..." Sydney shrugged her shoulders as she studied the photo again.

Suddenly she looked up accusingly at Vaughn. "What are you not telling me?"

Vaughn rubbed his forehead, feeling strangely faint as he heard his heart beat pulsing at his temples. Frustrated, he tried to control his temper, which had risen several notches with his fever at Sydney's endless questions and comments. "I really don't know Syd. I'm lost on this one, just as you are. I have no clue why there are going to be two handlers and two agents, but you can assume that this mission is important and that it's dangerous."

Sydney sought out his eyes, and seeing that he was telling the truth, she stood, stretched, and impulsively kissed him, or more like pecked him on the lips. "Now then, I'm going to walk you to your apartment and take care of you." She linked arms with his, but he gently shook her off, looking at her apologetically. "Actually, I think that would be unwise. We're leaving tomorrow Syd. We don't want to jeopardize the mission by being seen together." Sydney's face fell, then looking up, she gave him a sad smile, "Then promise me you'll take care of yourself tonight."

"I promise," he replied quickly, much too quickly from the looks of Sydney who had narrowed her eyes at him. "That's a promise," she growled, turning on her heels, and walking out of the warehouse, muttering to herself about "stubborn men" and things of that sort. Vaughn waited for her to disappear out of view before he sank to the ground in exhaustion, his head resting against the warm concrete wall of the building. As he slowly slipped away from consciousness into a dream world of clouds, the humidity in the warehouse increased, and outside, foreboding gray clouds gathered together, thickening and compacting themselves together until the sky was no longer visible.


	7. chapter 6

Hi everyone,

I'm new at this sort of thing, so sorry if I seemed rude if I didn't reply to your reviews. I've enjoyed getting reviews. It keeps me motivated to write more. I'll try to update more frequently but I'm taking summer school right now, and it is taking a toll on my creative juices. Hehe...Calculus...evil Calculus can do that to you. Anyways, just wanted to thank you for the reviews!

The world outside seemed to be grieving an unforeseen tragedy. Rain poured from the charcoal colored heavens like heavy drops of gasoline, and slithered with a hiss onto the concrete and pavement of the city. It stained the windows of cars, and soaked through the brick of more old-fashioned houses like a caustic dye, making the world look contaminated with a poison that was irreversible in its effect. While sensible citizens dodged into cozy homes, the more foolhardy, the romantics, and the young, remained in the rain, reveling in nature's dark side. Even they, however, knew the limits, and were homeward bound before the winds struck, making the world a spiritual world of restless phantoms, howling and wailing to the world of the living, secured away behind wooden, padlocked doors.

The howling awoke Vaughn, who had been dealing with his own phantoms in his restless dreams. To have emerged from a nightmare into a real nightmare confused him, as he looked fearfully out at the whirling mess outside. Pinching himself, and finding that he was indeed back in the real world, he rose to his feet unsteadily, stretching his back that was sore from the awkward position he had slept in. The humidity that had been thick in the warehouse before was replaced by a stinging coolness that made Vaughn shudder and rub his upper arms for warmth. He cursed as he realized that he had walked to the warehouse. It would be a perilous journey back home. Although he would have stayed in the warehouse, he realized it would be even more uncomfortable remaining there. Already the streets seemed to be flooded, and the dark rainwater was steadily seeping into the warehouse, making it even more damp and less than comfortable. He swallowed hard, and stepped out.

What he saw made his eyes widen. It was as if Mother Nature had released a Pandora's box of her most sinister forces upon the mortals in her wrath. Looking up at the sky, the clouds were a swirling mass of gray, an ominous version of Van Gogh's "Starry Night," and several spindly saplings along the road had snapped in two. The rain was heavy, and seemed to be a shower of bullets on Vaughn's body as he made his way towards his apartment. He clutched his chest, bent his head against the onslaught of rain like a charging bull, and steadily jogged along the street. The very air he breathed seemed to be like poison in his lungs as he coughed deeply from his chest and stomach. At one point, he slipped on the pavement, falling hard on his back. But he got up again, fighting through the blinding rain.

At last, he stood before his apartment door, drenched in water, pale and trembling, and yet, radiating with intense heat from his fever. He stepped into his sanctuary, his beloved home. Home sweet home, he thought. Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed him around his waist, and covered his mouth, stifling him from crying out. He struggled against the solid build of the stranger who held him, but found himself easily weakening in his attempts. Finally he punched the assailant in the stomach with his elbow, and extricated himself from the stranger's grasp. He turned on the lights, and was shocked to see Jack Bristow doubled over the kitchen table.

"Jack!" He hissed angrily, "What are you trying to do?" Jack looked up, surprised to see Vaughn. He lowered himself painfully into a chair, as he said tartly, "I thought you were Agent Ron." "And had it been Agent Ron, why would you have assaulted him like that?" Vaughn asked, leaning back against the wall. "Because, he is not who he says he is," Jack replied.


End file.
